


7,227,363,055

by deepercreeper (downdeepinside)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Or attempted suspense, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/deepercreeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Greg are held at gunpoint. Sherlock is forced to choose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	7,227,363,055

**Author's Note:**

> This is short and I am lazy sorry.

_The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep._

A bitter pause, followed by a mechanical beep that grates against his ear-drum and trills like a bow on a tightly wound E string.

He huffs an acid-like breath out through his teeth and closes his fist in anger.

He hits redial, and waits.

***

It’s too easy, really.

She had expected more from him – perhaps too much – it was as if she’d believed Boss’s lies about the man never leaving the battlefield. As she has stalked him down the street, when she had practically flounced into his silly little surgery with a conveniently broken radius and taken her seat in his office with a smile and an anxious wince when he prodded the wound, some small part of her had been looking. Looking for the tan that no longer brushed his skin, or the sand that stuck in his short hair, or maybe at least that omnipresent flicker of caution and excitement sparkling in his eyes. Looking for some sign of the soldier that once was. A challenge. Something _fun_.

She hadn’t really expected the teddy bear that greeted her with a warm smile and fell to the floor like a pair of old curtains upon receipt of the tiniest hit of rohypnol.

***

_The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please –_

He drops the phone onto the floor and it smashes into seven sharp shards as it hits the pavement.

Collateral damage. 

He looks up to the sky in search of – something.

The clouds look on helplessly.

He makes a decision.

He runs.

***

The other one; that detective Boss always seemed so fond of, he’d been a tad harder. Hasn’t allowed himself to go squishy round the edges. His eyes had narrowed ever so slightly as she had driven up to him in the street, in a tatty blue car with a bandage wrapped tightly round her wrist and an unconscious doctor hidden under a throw in the backseat. She had laughed awkwardly, and spoken with a thick Liverpool accent, but still he had remained suspicious.

It wasn’t until she’d gotten out of the car, ‘accidently’ swinging the door at his midriff and then slamming her heavy handbag at his head, that he’d started to loosen up a little.

***

He runs.

And he trips.

His shoe scrapes against the pavement, leaving scuffed scars on the Italian leather, and as his knees hit the floor a tear rips its way through his dress trousers. He curses, out loud this time, as he pushes himself off of the floor and brushes himself down before turning the corner and dashing onto Baker Street with half a lung full of air and a pretty bruise forming on his calf. He pulls his key from his breast pocket as he pulls to a reluctant stop in front of 221 – the rule of inertia has always applied to his transport – and the key misses its mark several times before he pushes it in and turns it, hearing the door click before he pushes it open with a trembling hand.

He flexes both his hands before steeling himself, pulling his shoulders back and forcing his legs to move forward.

Down the stairs.

The door to the flat is, unsurprisingly, unlocked, and he pushes it open reluctantly. From the room behind there is a huffing noise, then the loud crash of someone kicking a wall, and then the smooth chocolate voice of a woman far-too used to mysterious meetings in abandoned rooms with, more often than not, one or two hostages.

“Come in, Mr Holmes,”

Anthea smiles at Sherlock’s raised eyebrows, pulling a gun out to place on the battered table she’s perched on and pushing her pumps off, letting them fall to the floor casually. She crosses her legs and pulls the band out of her hair before turning her attention to the tear in Sherlock’s trousers.

“I’m glad to see you hurried,” she sighs, looking down to her dress sleeves as she begins to roll them up, revealing a fresh bandage on her right arm, “Dr Watson and Mr Lestrade _were_ starting to worry.”

Sherlock’s eyes fall on his two friends, both taped to chairs with enough duct tape to hold down an elephant. Their eyes meet, and John gives an imperceptible shake of his head, before Sherlock pulls of his shirt jacket and throws it to the floor. He takes the time to close the door, before flashing a toothy grin at his brother’s assistant and rubbing his hands together, “Sorry it took me a moment, your message was rather hard to decipher. For future reference, I do prefer to text.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are really appreciated.


End file.
